


Served

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-14
Updated: 2015-08-14
Packaged: 2018-04-14 15:23:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4569516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thranduil fittingly spites Elrond for seducing his son.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Served

**Author's Note:**

  * For [consumptive_sphinx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/consumptive_sphinx/gifts).



> A/N: Fill for a-terror-of-shadow-and-flame’s “Thranduil finds out that Elrond and Legolas are sleeping together — so, naturally, he seduces the twins” request on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit/The Lord of the Rings or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Thranduil storms through the halls of Imladris with a fury in his step, lesser elves scrambling out of the way down every corridor he passes. Usually, these visits are dull, somewhat soothing but mostly unimportant, and the only reason they come so often at all is because Legolas begs for them. Thranduil, a more loving father than most give him credit for, tends to give in. But now that he knows why those pleas come, he isn’t sure he’ll grant such a request ever again. 

If he loved Legolas any less, if Legolas were any younger, if Thranduil had perhaps one more drink in him, he would’ve stormed into his son’s bedroom this morning with a tongue like a knife. He’d come across the open door and meant to invite Legolas for a walk through the gardens, only to peer between the wood and spot Legolas’ company already taken. 

Perhaps he should be grateful he saw no more. His son was clothed, or at least, appeared to be, seated in Lord Elrond’s lap atop the borrowed mattress. But the rocking movement of Legolas’ hips told it all. He was _riding_ Elrond: a man far too old, too impure, too wholly _unworthy_ of Legolas’ splendor. The anger in Thranduil’s chest was no small animal. 

It’s a beast now, feral and hungry for _revenge_ , as Thranduil paces the halls and ponders his options. He didn’t interrupt them. They likely have no clue he saw anything at all. He knows from bitter experience that if he had burst in and if he tried to forbid Legolas this, Legolas would only rebel all the worse. His best bet is simply to wait for Legolas to grow bored of someone so clearly beneath him, and in the meantime, Elrond will have to be... dealt with.

Revenge between allies is a careful thing. He isn’t sure of how to come about it, and then he turns a corner and spots the first elf who doesn’t flee from his obvious temper: a prince perched on a stone bench, his back to the open pillars with the green courtyard beyond. The sunlight washes down his shoulders and dark hair, his grey eyes engrossed in an open book. It gives Thranduil his answer, so obvious and easy. His malice melts to a slow simmer, face twisting into a smirk, then a wining smile. He sweeps closer to pause before Elrohir’s knees, and only then does Elrohir glance up.

He greets a polite, “My lord,” and dips his head. Thranduil nods in return, face deceptively cordial. 

He asks, voice soft and meant to beckon, “Elrohir. It has been too long. What has your attention so well captured?”

Elrohir’s brow knits together for a fraction of a second. He’s young, pretty, smooth and alluring, and only vaguely reminiscent of his dull and wizened father. All he would have to do now is give a displeased look, and Thranduil’s plan would be dashed. But Thranduil’s never been rejected yet. He isn’t now. Elrohir closes the book and places it at the corner of his bench, leaving the open side free, and he answers, “Nothing of consequence.” The invitation is obvious and not unexpected. Legolas is beautiful, but Thranduil is more so. He takes the offered seat, body turned towards his prey. 

With his hands elegantly folded in his lap, waiting for the right moment, Thranduil notes, “I rarely see you without your brother.” 

“He has gone to fetch us a drink,” Elrohir says. What kind of drink, he doesn’t specify. It’s unlikely to be the kind that Thranduil would prefer, but next time Elrond dares to visit Thranduil’s kingdom, he had best bring these two for Thranduil to fill with Dorwinion wine.

Perhaps it’s best that he’s trapped one alone first. He’s not entirely sure both are on the table, though that would be preferable, and he asks with a playful look, “Do you do everything together?” It could be an innocent question, but understanding flashes in Elrohir’s eyes.

He turns his body a fraction more towards Thranduil, and he says without hesitation, “Yes.” 

So Thranduil rephrases, dipping his voice low and sensual, “You share _everything_?” Elrohir parts his lips, but before he can answer, Thranduil’s slipped his hand along Elrohir’s cheek. His thumb traces Elrohir’s chin, just short of Elrohir’s waiting mouth. Elrohir’s breath catches.

He murmurs, “Yes, but I do not require Elladan to begin.”

Thranduil purrs, “Clever boy.” He uses his grip to hold Elrohir still, and he leans forward, his lips brushing over Elrohir’s, feather light and tantalizing. Elrohir’s hand shifts between them, reaching for Thranduil’s knee. Thranduil’s thumb crawls higher, and he presses down against the middle of Elrohir’s bottom lip, pulling Elrohir’s jaw down. It gives Thranduil the ease of access, and he slips his tongue into Elrohir’s open mouth, pleased to find how eagerly Elrohir returns the kiss. His face is obediently still in Thranduil’s hand, but his tongue works fervently to toy with Thranduil’s, and when Thranduil pulls back, there’s a slight hiss to Elrohir’s breath: the disappointment of a warrior denied the kill. Thranduil’s eyes shift aside, and Elrohir follows to discover why. 

Elladan walks smoothly to them, having paused for only a second. He looks much the same as his brother—so much so that many, less skilled than Thranduil, have trouble telling them apart. He carries two goblets, one in each hand. When he reaches the bench, Thranduil plucks one wordlessly from his hand, lifting it to smell. 

Water. Drab, but expected. Satisfied, Thranduil passes it to Elrohir, who takes only one sip before setting it on the ledge behind them, the courtyard beyond still empty. Elladan moves to place his glass on the ledge as well, but farther along: there’s no room for him anywhere but Thranduil’s other side. As he takes his seat, he sighs, “I have missed much. I confess I feel somewhat put out, my lord. What has my brother done to earn your touch that I have not?”

The quick admission makes Thranduil wonder if he’s been missing this opportunity before. They act as though they’ve wanted him for some time, and it’s left nothing to think about. They’re happy to allow for his revenge, to have him whatever his motive. He would be glad of his luck, except that he knows it’s nothing of the sort: it’s attention he’s earned. He lets his hand fall from Elrohir, instead threading his fingers back through Elladan’s long hair, and promises, “I did not forget you.” There’s no need for more explanation. When he tugs Elladan forward by the hair, Elladan leans in to receive a deep kiss. It seems to start just where Elrohir left off, and while Thranduil traces his tongue around Elladan’s mouth, Elrohir’s hand drifts higher along Thranduil’s thigh. 

“You are _very_ handsome, my lord,” Elrohir purrs as Thranduil finishes with Elladan. 

Elladan adds, pressing closer to flatten along Thranduil’s side, “But we did not think a king would be interested in two mere Rangers.”

Ordinarily, perhaps he wouldn’t. He hasn’t yet decided how long he’ll keep them for—perhaps until Legolas leaves Elrond, or perhaps simply until he grows bored. For now, he chuckles, “How could I not enjoy twin princes?” They grin at him, mirroring one another. 

Elladan is already turned to him and easy to pull over; he loops one arm around Elladan’s waist and hikes Elladan onto his leg, thighs spreading, Elladan’s parted eagerly around him. By the time he’s gripped Elrohir the same way, Elrohir’s already moving to join. They’re heavy, broader and harder than Legolas, but he’s stronger still. With both of them leaning forward to grind into him as much as they can, their legs tangled with one another, Thranduil runs his fingers down the curves of their spines. He takes large fistfuls of their rears, squeezing between their robes, obvious and lewd but worth their breathy gasps. Evenly between them, he muses, “It is a pity I have not the ability to fill you both at once.”

“Perhaps we should retire to your guest quarters,” Elladan suggests, his body squirming to press itself against Thranduil’s, his ass thrusting back into Thranduil’s hand. Thranduil’s rooms aren’t far, but he’d prefer to squeeze Elladan’s tight ass right here, for everyone to see. 

He asks coyly, “Why? Are you afraid your father will find you acting naughty?”

“Are you not?” Elrohir retorts, but he writhes as wantonly as his brother. Thranduil plays with him just as much, kneading his round flesh. Thranduil doesn’t properly answer the question, because it should be obvious. He has fear for very little, Elrond least of all.

He replies, “I would be proud to be seen with such lovely creatures.” He only leaves their rears because he has deeper plans, and he swerves back to their fronts, up their collars, reaching for the clips to deftly unfasten, one in each hand and both sets at once. Elladan and Elrohir move to help, tugging their own robes down their shoulders, exposing creamy skin for Thranduil to trace. He doesn’t stop until all the clasps are done, the fabric in pools around their waists, silken hair the only thing obscuring skin from view. He kisses Elladan’s cheek first, then Elrohir’s, and his hands lift along their throats, chins, and finally to their mouths. He orders simply, “Open,” and both of Elrond’s sons suck his fingers into their mouths. 

It’s almost too easy. The twins suckle on two digits each, coating them for the fun to come. He wouldn’t actually _take_ them here, not if it meant exposing himself, but he’ll certainly push their exhibitionism as far as they’ll allow. They’ve been uninterrupted thus far—perhaps everyone’s been warned to give Thranduil’s quarters a wide berth. But someone will come eventually, and new rumours will flow back to Elrond’s ears, and Thranduil will have the pleasure of fondling his new prizes in front of Elrond for the rest of this visit. Elrond’s too polite to reciprocate; Legolas will be safe. Elladan and Elrohir are anything but.

As soon as Thranduil pulls his fingers from their mouths, both elves are on him, vying for his lips. He continues his trail down their bodies, this time dipping beneath their robes, feeling their warm flesh in his hands as he circles their firm rumps. He chooses which to kiss by random, alternating back and forth, and whichever one he doesn’t fill with his tongue licks at him instead, kissing and nuzzling against his neck from either side. He traces their cracks, rubbing between their cheeks, until he finds their puckered holes, twitching hot to take him. He pierces them both at once, and Elrohir gasps, Elladan groaning. They’re tight, _very_ tight, but they’re fighters, and they take him without complaint. Though their heaps of robes just barely cover their rears, the trajectory of Thranduil’s arms is obvious, and their bodies are wracked heavy with his movements. He exaggerates every squeeze and every thrust, just to make them arch and gasp against him. 

It’s better than he could’ve hoped for. He’s delighted in how crudely they moan, how wildly they writhe, how their hands roam his body to beg him for _more_. He strokes ever deeper inside them, until he’s in to the knuckle with one finger each, petting their walls and purring, “Now, which of you shall I have first...?”

“Me,” Elrohir gasps, rocking his hips back onto Thranduil’s hand and grinding his chest against Thranduil’s, his little pink nipples pebbling from rubbing against the fabric. 

But Elladan moans, “No, _me_ ,” and bites into Thranduil’s jaw, his body every bit as sensual. Thranduil hasn’t yet decided which, and they don’t make it easy. Before he can choose, his eyes catch a flicker of movement down the corridor.

Elrond steps around it, his face turned to speak to Legolas, who walks in his step but deceptively not on his arm. Legolas spots them first, freezes in place, and Elrond follows, turning to _gape_. His usually dignity falls by the wayside for a brief second before he reigns himself back. Thranduil can still see the wrath in his eyes. 

Legolas just blushes hotly, looking pointedly away. Thranduil dons a lazy smirk, as though this is simply what he does every time he comes here, and Elladan and Elrohir notice last, glancing over their shoulders to see what Thranduil watches. 

They’re a little older than Legolas, harder, and they’ve seen more of the world. They don’t turn red like him, though they aren’t so casual as Thranduil. They’re still as statues, waiting, and finally, Thranduil lifts a challenging brow. 

Legolas gently tugs at Elrond’s sleeve. He has to practically drag Elrond back the way they came, Thranduil’s vengeance wonderfully secured. He drags his hands out of Elladan and Elrohir to twin whines of protest, only to inform them, “The first to my bed will be the first to taste my cock.” They barely give themselves time to blink. 

They spring out of his lap, hurriedly gathering their robes, neither bothering to fix them up but clutching the fabric around themselves instead, and they take off like horses in a fierce competition. Thranduil follows at a much more regal pace, whilst wondering how rough he’ll have to be to leave them limping in the morning.


End file.
